


New Year, New Decade

by helena_s_renn



Series: Leaning, Learning [2]
Category: Def Leppard, Music RPF
Genre: Friendship, Multi, New Year's Eve, Recording Studio, Sex, Sharing a Bed, het hook-up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-01-04 17:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18348002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn
Summary: Following the Rick's birthday celebration, things do not continue in the way he'd hoped or expected. Instead, in the cold winter, he finds himself in a somewhat unsettling - at first - friendship with Joe after hours.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The usual disclaimers: only respect to all parties; this not meant to represent the RL Def Leppard et al.
> 
> On Through the Night's main recording was in December '79. I have bumped that forward a month. 
> 
> Age of consent in the UK is 16. 
> 
> Beta and review of Ch 1 by ChristianHowe, many thanks.

-1979, December - 1 January, 1980

There had not been much in the way of follow-up, after the event at Sav's in the morning hours following Rick's birthday. The scenes crept up on him in odd moments. He knew he spent far too much time thinking about it, wanking over it, planning what might come next. 

As much as it had been his singular goal, it hadn't worked out for Steve to fuck him. He didn't get what Steve was so worried about: if Sav could take him, Rick could, surely. Especially now. Whatever literal cock-up had happened with Joe, Rick being able to handle him should restore Steve's confidence. If he had to go through Sav to get to Steve again, he'd do it. Hell, the bloke had opened his eyes to what the word sensual meant and Rick would never look at him the same. But... he needed... 

Life went on, though. Rick knew how it went, this being the beginning of his second year with Leppard now. It had snowed, and the temperature dropped. The spoon factory wasn't warm, though the brick walls kept the wind out. During rehearsals, they didn't dare plug in more than two space heaters for fear of blowing a fuse. Like it or not, Rick had to layer his clothes for practice, starting in two shirts and a coat; by the end, down to a thin tee soaked in sweat with his cold-stiffened nipples poking through. It was the same for all of them.

Once after rehearsal, Sav had unexpectedly moved in on Rick and kissed him on the mouth. Regrettably, Pete had been three feet away with his back turned, so Rick had done nothing, response-wise, though his face had tingled for a while. Sav had also pawed his arse a couple of times, to which Rick grinned and asked for more, but there was always some reason why a quick fumble was all they had time for. Steve had kept his hands to himself, to Rick's consternation. That wasn't to say he didn't throw filthy looks at Rick at seemingly random moments. About all that did for him, predictably, was give him wood with no outlet. He had a lot to learn yet about being sneaky.

Things got busy for the band, as people geared up with holiday parties. They were booked for every mid-week to weekend, straight through the month of December. In retrospect, it turned into one big blur.

The holidays came and went. Boxing Day. Time for stuffing themselves with Yorkshire pudding and Christmas cake was over. For the first time in his life, Rick was more than ready to move past New Years', into the bitter cold of January. More and more, out in the country at his folks' place, he was forever antsy to get back to town and the Leppard sphere.

But first, they had to get through the night itself. The band had been hired to play at a pub one town over, still a haul with subzero wind chills and their borrowed van's heating on the fritz.

As they'd been packing up after their New Years' Eve gig, Rick had been bold enough to follow Steve into the alley and rub up on him, but there were too many people around for more than anything but a hump and a grind before Steve broke away with a muttered, "Sorry, mate." Fuck it, Rick decided. He'd gone almost two months with no sex with anyone but himself. He'd snogged a few birds but couldn't get into it, the need for a different sort of touch like an ever-present flashback. Inside the pub was a woman with big blue eyes, jet black hair, and a strong Welsh accent too beer-thickened to comprehend much other than she wanted to get with him. There'd been others that had tried to chat him up. In that inexplicable way, perhaps because she was a bit older than him or because her hair was short, a delicate curve to her neck below the razor-cut ends of it, or the way she danced, who knew, Rick had been drawn. Just for tonight. 

The pub had a dark, musty old cellar. Funny, he'd almost forgotten what a woman felt like. He wasn't a tall bloke but she was smaller. Soft. Pliable. He had to get used to the feel of 'female' all over again. After they'd hugged and snogged and felt each other up for a bit, the usual order of things, hands went down pants. 

It got hot and heavy soon enough; there was always limited time for this sort of thing. He'd wanted to take her from behind but she got the point across it would be face-to-face or nothing, so Rick hoisted her up onto an enormous beer barrel and did her. No need for prep, she was wet and warm, slick and tight. A passing thought that Sav and Steve would have been proud of him for remembering a rubber flitted across Rick's mind. Once he stopped comparing, build and push taken over by instinct carried him. He still loved boobs, no doubt about that. At the end, nipple in his mouth and both hands pulling her down upon himself, it was almost a relief to have it over. 

As they came down from the buzz and straightened themselves up, Rick heard other couples going at it in darker corners. Some of the voices, he recognised. Some, he didn't but he did know the names they called out. No one saw him blush when he caught the whispered repetitions of two of them matching pace and urgency.

After they'd got their gear back into the factory, Steve cut his eyes at him. Rick understood it fine, that jittery wave going straight to his guts and his balls but they'd all gone home separately, other than it was decided Rick would be crashing at Joe's that night. What was left of it.

That made him a little nervous. Their lead singer's constant perusal infiltrated the edges of his awareness. Joe was too sophisticated to be caught gawking, but the eyes were there, eyes like hands. Sav had told him that no one would do anything to him he didn't want. With Steve and Sav, he _wanted_. Joe, he still wasn't 100 percent sure of. If it came down to it, would a bloke with four years, almost half a foot in height on him and then there was that ever-present-in-the-back-of-his-mind question of size, back off if Rick found something not to his liking?

Joe had never given him any valid reason to think otherwise. It was unfair, his leeriness. Rick wasn't scared of him, more like, he wanted to avoid any confrontation about _that_ at all costs. It came down to power, Rick concluded. They insisted all members of Leppard were equal. Were they - was he?

It was just over a mile walk from the factory to Joe's. Rick counted the infrequent streetlights as they crunched along as fast as the frigid air allowed, while his ears grew colder and colder, his stocking cap lost in the shuffle somewhere.

At nearly five in the morning they tiptoed through Joe's front door; only then Joe remembered that his parents had gone away overnight. Rick's ears were ringing and he cupped his hands around them to begin reheating the cartilage.

After flipping on the overhead light, Joe looked over. "Your ears, Rick! They're bright red. Make that brick red. Why didn't you say something?" He hurried to take off his hat and coat and approached Rick in no less of a rush, his enormous hands that looked even bigger with the foreshortened perspective extended out in front of him.

Overtired and already on edge, Rick backed up, bumping his hip on the table in the narrow entry hall.

"Oi, I'm not gonna kiss you, yeh wanker," Joe chuckled. "Stand still and let me warm up your ears before they fall off your head." He put his hands out again.

It was uncomfortable. Too close. Rick had never had Joe draped over him like the others had. He seemed to be one of those people who ran hot, his hands warm and dry around Rick's tingling ears. 

A few minutes later, he admonished, "Don't be so stupid again, we have months of winter ahead of us," and then bid Rick good night. Having slept there many times before, Rick found his place on the cramped couch in the lounge. The two blankets stashed in the front hall cupboard and his winter coat thrown over the top eventually captured enough body heat for him to fall sleep.

...

Joe didn't have to work the next day. Neither of them woke until noon. Since the Elliotts were still gone, Joe took it upon himself to do a breakfast fry-up. Eggs, bacon, sausages, beans and toast and tomato. Otherwise impressed, Rick turned up his nose at black sausages but inhaled the rest like he was starving. 

"Slow down, you'll get sick," Joe laughed, midway through. He shovelled a forkful of fried eggs into his mouth. 

Rick mumbled, "Yes, Mum," followed up with a big bite of toast laden with baked beans.

"What do you wanna do till practice? We could listen to some albums. Or we could write something, work on songs."

"Writing, not my thing, not clever," Rick protested.

"I dunno about that," Joe looked over, an edge in his voice. "Steve speaks highly of your, uh, brains."

"Really?" Rick feigned innocence.

"Really."

There was a long pause.

"You get any last night?" The smirk on Joe's face said that he himself had. No surprises there. He made the girls he banged squeal; Rick had heard it the previous night and on a few other occasions. 

Although Rick really didn't want to answer, he felt compelled. "Aye. The bird with the short black hair." He lowered his eyes, not over any embarrassment of his own exploits, but over the idea of Joe... fucking.

"Mmm... she was fit. Lucky you." Joe pulled a face, which Rick could hear in his tone. 

After a beat, Rick asked, because he knew he was supposed to, "What?"

"Mine wanted it up the arse."

"So?" Rick asked carefully. 

"It wouldn't fit." 

Full of new, superior knowledge, Rick blurted, "Well don't you carry slick?"

"Even so." 

"Oh." Oh, hell. The ice was getting thinner and thinner. Now the rumours passed around settled foremost in Rick's mind. Even Sav and Steve had said...

"Had to do it the regular way." Joe looked up at the ceiling.

Rick had no idea what to make of that. "Oh," he said again. Then, no idea where it came from, he asked bluntly, "Why would you want to do anal, anyway? I mean, with a girl?" 

"So you got your cherry popped for your birthday, huh?" 

Rick choked at this turnabout and snorted his tea out his nose. Of course he'd more or less told Joe that he had by insinuation, in the pub a few days afterward. Despite seeming to care that Rick was more than fine, maybe even interested, Joe hadn't brought it up again till now. "Fuck...!" Rick sputtered. And then, "Yesterday's gossip." 

'Maybe he could help with that.' That's what Rick had thought. Now he felt like he was naught but a juicy piece of rump roast and Joe was going to eat him for dinner.

No, it wasn't going to go down like that. 

Joe continued, as if Rick hadn't devolved into hacking and wheezing a minute before, "They tried that on me, y'know. I don't mind hands and mouths. A bloke knows what to do. Stronger hands, too..." He trailed off, for once at a loss for words. 

"But you don't bend over," Rick finished for him. "I got it. It's your business." The more they discussed Joe's sexual habits, the more uncomfortable Rick grew. He honestly couldn't tell if this was a proposition or a warning and the vertigo was disconcerting. 

Joe looked at him again, this time inscrutable, then away and changed the subject. He hadn't told anyone else yet, but he'd been contacted by a record label that had got a hold of a copy of their EP.

"Really? When? Which one? Aren't they on holiday?" Questions shot from Rick's mouth rapid fire. Breakfast and previous topic of discussion forgotten, a rush of happy adrenaline hit him. This could be their chance, everything they'd worked for! That was all they talked about for the rest of the day, till late afternoon when Joe made the announcement to the rest of the band. 

\- January, 1980

Another night at Joe's. For whatever reason, he seemed to be there almost every night now. The pipe was leaking, water dripping through the ceiling above the couch Rick called his bed. At first he'd been afraid he'd pissed the bed, which he hadn't done since he was barely old enough to remember, but then it dripped on him again and again and his sleep-befuddled brain divined the true source. He wasn't so sure he should turn on the overhead light, and the only lamp was across the room. Getting up, he felt his way, banging his shin on the coffee table. 

At some point, Joe's mum got up to use the loo. By then, Rick had turned on the lamp and was trying to move the couch out of the way of the drip. 

"Rick... is everything alright?" came Mrs. Elliott's voice from the top of the stairs. 

"Yes, but do you have a bucket?" Rick called back, realising it was a strange question. 

"Yes of course, but why?" 

"There's a leak... in the ceiling. I didn't want to trouble anyone."

"Oh dear!" Presently, she showed up in her dressing gown, took in the scene and pronounced that he couldn't sleep there until the pipes were repaired. Secretly, Rick was relieved but didn't say it out loud. 

By now Mr. Elliott was awake, too, his footsteps crossing back and forth overhead as he went on about 'that manky plumber, knew he was no good'. Rick and the lady of the house exchanged a look.

"You can bunk with Joseph," declared Mrs. Elliott. 

"Oh, uh..." Thus far, Joe had not shown his face in this debacle and Rick considered him smart to stay out of it. "Do you have a sleeping bag or more blankets?" he asked. 

"No, but Joseph has plenty of room," Mrs. Elliott said, and Rick raised his eyebrows. In a single bed, with the owner of it over six feet? He could hardly refuse, though. Something in his face must have given him away. Mrs. Elliott took him by the hand and led him upstairs, knocked on Joe's door and let Rick in herself. 

All the build-up was for nothing. Joe's previous narrow, almost kiddie-sized bed had been replaced with a double. How did he rate that? Rick wondered. Doubles were for married people. Or at least, he assumed, real adults with houses and decent-paying jobs.

Whatever, he was too tired to ask questions. Joe cracked his eyes open long enough to get the idea of why he was being asked to share his bed with a bloke, moved over, and promptly conked out again.

Rick dropped his clothes. Dammit, even his underwear were damp from the ceiling leak. He snatched one of Joe's tee-shirts that didn't stink too bad off the floor and put it on. It would either cover his bits or his arse depending on which way he pulled it. He turned off the light and tumbled into bed. 

It seemed as though only five minutes had passed when Rick was jostled awake. Weak daylight diffuse in the room showed him narrowed eyes six inches from his face. "What the fuck're you doing in here? D'jya piss the bed or summat?" Joe demanded, sitting up with the speed of a scalded cat.

"No! Your wonky pipes... in the lounge over the couch, don't you remember last night?" 

"Wait...! Did we fuck?!" 

The sheer terror in Joe's delivery amused Rick to no end. He drawled, "Oh yeah, baby... you gave it up for me so nice..."

At that point, Rick got shoved abruptly out of bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Def Leppard goes into the studio to record OttN.

They'd been very, very, intensely busy. 

The rest of the band had at least marginally recorded before. Being it was Rick's first time, he had much to learn about studio work. If he'd thought practicing at the factory was demanding, he'd never quite imagined this. It was on him, he felt. He had to be perfect. Everything else was built upon him. 

At first, it was fun and high spirits, riffing and getting acquainted with their assigned space. They began to discover they weren't as prepared as they might have been. Another thing: everyone but Rick came in with new material, which surprised him. Was this something else they had discussed out of his hearing? Or was it normal for recording an album? He not only had to learn but perfect songs, almost in realtime. They'd do a rough track and then on to the piecemeal of one player at a time. But with him, he had to spend hours with whoever wrote the new song before he was satisfied enough with his parts to record. 

If not for the soundproofed room where he practiced almost non-stop, he'd have thrown in the towel. Sometimes his entire body hurt, and his head, even his eyes from the intensity. Joe would poke his head into the room from time to time, Rick's highs and lows bouncing right off him. 

It wasn't all stress. They goofed around between takes. There was footie and snowball fights out in the street in the middle of the night, moms and girlfriends dropping off treats (the former) and more beer (the latter). They'd go 'home' to clean up and sleep a few hours. 

Sleep it off, more likely. They drank a lot, too. Rick had vague recollections of stumbling back to the Elliotts' with their frontman, more than once falling on his arse after slipping on a patch of ice. When picked up, stood on his feet and dusted off, he played it off like being manhandled had no effect on him. "Should I kiss it better?" Joe asked once in a wry voice. Not sure what to make of that, his soused mind not working at 100 percent, Rick just laughed. Then he mooned Joe, who laughed at him in turn and informed him that his arse crack was steaming in the cold. Trousers up, sheepish, Rick had to hold on to Joe's arm when they walked - slid - down a hill or he'd never had made it alive.

One time Rick had Joe's bed to himself, and he'd been too exhausted to wank. The leaky pipe got repaired within hours of Rick's original night time adventure, but the ceiling itself had to wait, and then it seemed to be a never-ending process to fix. The plaster had to be removed as well as some of the lathes, which had warped. Then there was the re-plastering. It didn't set up right the first time so the whole process started over from scratch. While this went on, the lounge was off limits, furniture covered in plastic sheeting. 

Strange bedfellows... Rick had heard the phrase, knew it was part of a longer one but couldn't remember the entirety. It was weird. He'd never shared a bed before, even as a small child. He and his brother always had twin bunks. Nor had he ever stayed overnight with a woman. After the first two or three nights of bedding down with Joe, he'd relaxed and didn't worry so much about staying on his side of the invisible line. 

Joe certainly didn't. His long limbs hogged the four corners of the bed and the blankets besides. Waking up wet with sweat and aching hard became par for the course. Sometimes Rick escaped before Joe woke up, but usually not. 

Most days, they came and went to and from the studio together. Rick learned Joe wasn't as scary as he liked to present - he was actually a quite nice bloke. Just don't piss him off or try to take advantage. That was good, though. A few times, studio execs popped in and tried to make changes. Joe would have none of it. 

When Joe was working one of his part-time day jobs, Rick was on his own. That wasn't to say he was alone. The other three of Def Leppard, the studio folks, Joe's parents occasionally and other sundry people moved in and out of his periphery. It was just that, either from spending time with him or because he hadn't been with Joe in any manner that the frontman slowly became his gravitational centre. 

In terms of music, the two of them harped on each other more than anyone, but not with the cutting sarcasm Pete could sling. It was to be helpful. Steve and Pete were both skilled enough despite how young they all were that no one but themselves told them their business. Sav... bassists pretty much blended into the layers unless they totally sucked. Although Rick could see him sometimes eye the guitarists with something like envy, he kept his mouth shut and played and replayed his parts till no one could bitch. 

Singing, Sav did most of what back-up Joe didn't himself. Pete could sing, although his voice still retained something of an adolescent, voice-just-changed quality. Joe encouraged Rick. And vice-versa when Rick could formulate something half-intelligent. Although he had the personality for it, Joe had never considered being a lead vocalist till he auditioned for Lepp's fore-runner Atomic Mass and got roped into it. His natural voice and what was required by their style were two different things, Rick was surprised to learn. He'd thought all that time that the band had formed in the misty past - AKA, little more than two years previous - around the caustic screech. 

There was one time that Pete banged some girl in the loo, which echoed crazily late at night, subjecting them all to an overabundance of high-pitched moans and grunts, the accelerondo coming to the inevitable conclusion but not before the four in the other room started to clap the speeding rhythm. Rick side-eyed the others not knowing which of them he wanted to drag in there next for a go but of course he didn't. 

Apparently he wasn't the only one affected. When they got home, Joe escaped upstairs but Rick's mum had rung and, after fielding her questions for some time, Mrs. Elliott handed Rick the receiver with a look uncannily like her son's that said do it or else. He was tired and grumpy and horny, not a good thing when talking to one's mother but Rick obeyed. 

Twenty minutes later, he hung up with a sigh and an eye-roll. Yes, he loved it that his parents supported him but... not that minute. Upstairs, just as he was about to open the door, he heard the sounds emanated from Joe's room, sounds that Rick knew and understood. Slap, slap, slap, slap, and a few low groans. He stood stupidly outside the door. Stupidly hard, his body reacting again to the presence of sexuality. Unable to do anything else, he tiptoed to the loo and took himself in hand. God, he was tired of flying solo, not when the possibilities surrounded him, one in particular.

Late one night Sav was on the spot, laying down bass tracks for Answer and Walls. Joe was 'helping' behind the board, and Pete had gone home to sleep. Itching for the opportunity for too long, Rick took Steve by the wrist with a mumbled 'need to talk to you about something' and pulled him into the tiny, crowded manager's office. His heart beat wildly in his chest for fear of rejection. 

An ugly old plaid couch took up half of the space, smaller than the one he called his home-away-from-home at the Elliotts', which was why no one ever slept on it except for short naps. There, he turned himself loose. Hands, mouth, his entire body needed to see and taste and feel. Needed to move. Nothing needed to be said aloud. Rick could see in Steve's face that he was willing. That he wanted it. 

Having come prepared, Rick dug lube and condoms from his coat pocket. Steve grinned and told him that he was ambitious. Rick supposed that he was. He'd waited what seemed like an eternity. In less than ten seconds, he was naked. It was something of a shock to see that Steve hadn't moved. Well, that was soon remedied. 

"Sit!" Rick hissed, and then, "would you?" 

"Might help if I take my trousers off, wouldn't you say?" A little grin played at the borders of Steve's pale pink lips as he looked Rick up and down. Sometimes he could be really playful. Rick was delighted at catching him in such a mood. 

"Aye. 'less you want me to do it." 

"It don't matter to me," quipped Steve, and they grinned at each other. While Rick reverted to shyness, which he never was, or maybe just out of deference, Steve got himself stripped and sat down on the scratchy old sofa. "Do your worst," he invited. 

He'd waited so goddamned long that when Rick straddled Steve's lap and the tip of his dick came into contact with the guitarist's stomach, a big blob of fluid blurted out onto the region just north off his belly button. 

"Did you just gack?" Steve asked with a snort of disbelief. 

"No...! That's three months of..." Rick wasn't sure what it was called, "that shiny slick stuff, from waiting. It's not cum." That, he knew the word for. 

"What, don't you wank?" Now there were hands on Rick's arse and he didn't want to think about tossing off, not now. One did that quickly, furtively, when their bedfellow was - hopefully - fast asleep. 

Then Rick recalled for the hundredth time what Steve had done in the background while Sav fucked him for the first time. He shoved against Steve and challenged, "Of course I do. I'm a bloke. Why? 'Dja wanna see?" 

Steve looked down. Then up again into Rick's eyes, the blue in his irises giving way to black as his pupils blew wide. He said frankly, "Yes, sometime maybe, but you're not here for that are you?" His fingers crept inward, making Rick jump when Steve touched his hole, abandoned these last months. He just shook his head and pitched his hips, unable to keep still. 

Rick had to learn all over again how to prep and stretch... things. Steve let him do it, murmuring that it was one more technique he needed to retain. Too keyed up to tell Steve to shut it, Rick determinedly worked himself open. Steve's hands, restless and jittery, held and tugged him, not just his junk but his arms, then his chest till his nipples were screaming, and back to his arse; the way his eyes went from Rick's unit to his face and back, again and again, that half-smile and... was it need? Curiosity? Again he asked in a whisper if Rick really wanted it, and was he sure. 

"Fuck yeah, it's all I think about." 

"No wonder you can't get your cymbals miked right."

Rick let out an affronted huff. 

"No, I'm... You meant it as a compliment, I get it," the guitarist murmured. "Ride me now."

In his peripheral vision, there was a brief movement. The door. He hadn't locked it. Rick caught a flash of narrowed green eyes before the catch snicked closed. The whole year before, Joe had played a part of some of those little scenes he had felt so confused about seeing. Was their frontman going to make a fuss? Would there be jealousy? There'd never been one whiff of it with Sav or Steve. 

But he had no time or inclination to consider it further for the moment. Deeming himself ready, Rick rose up. Hellfire, he'd forgotten exactly how disproportionate an erection was compared to its destination, but he positioned himself and slid down, down, down. Fuck, it still fucking hurt but he wanted it so bad he just let gravity do its thing. The look in Steve's eyes as they joined, his arms around Rick, one hand on his butt and the other around his nape got him halfway there. 

They hadn't the luxury of hours and a full-sized bed like at Sav's. It was just as exhilarating. Rick bounced and writhed. He felt so powerful, and he leaned in to take Steve's lips like he owned them. Spitted on dick, moaning into his lover's mouth, Rick shot so hard, till he couldn't even move. He didn't register till he was empty and babbling that Steve had come, too. He only regretted missing it. 

No way was he getting anything else done tonight. His limbs were lead; his mind was fuzz. They shared a few more kisses but Rick was nearly asleep. Once out from under him, Steve dressed himself and left after making sure Rick was decent and that he wouldn't freeze. 

An hour later, Rick awoke. His back was already starting to twinge from the too-small couch. Deciding to return to Joe's for some real sleep rather than being utterly unproductive here, he put on his coat, hat, gloves and scarf against the cold. As he left, he met Pete returning. They went out for a smoke and discussed again the need for better vocal harmonies but Rick couldn't think straight and escaped. 

Midway to the Elliotts, he stopped for a piss in someone's garden. The moon was out. At around three AM even in Sheffield it was quiet there. A dog barked in the distance, and he could hear the faint ever-present hum of electricity. That was all, beyond his own feet crunching in the snow or scuffling along the sidewalks. Sometimes he had to pick his way carefully. Seemed like he'd never get back to Joe's. 

He was cold. His arsehole felt weird. Slippery. Also though, while in the moment the sex taken Rick to wondrous heights he felt empty inside and not only physically. Before, afterwards, they'd slept together, smoked together, showered together. When it was over fast with girls, he'd never thought anything of it. But with blokes, or just with Steve, he hadn't enough experience to know, that was entirely unsatisfying. What the hell was wrong with him? 

The light was on in the front window when Rick finally approached the door in the row. He shouldn't be, but his nerves were suddenly on edge. Joe sat at the kitchen table with a smoke and a cup of tea, eating some toast. He said nothing to Rick at first, only nodded and smiled faintly. Hemming and hawing and shifting on his feet, Rick got himself some water at the sink and finally sat down. Tick-tick, tick-tick, went the kitchen clock. Joe slurped down more tea. Rick jiggled one leg and slouched. 

"You ready to turn in?" Joe spoke. "Me, I gotta go to work in an hour. Had a two-hour nap, might as well go in now." 

Rick grated out some noise of comprehension and stood, making for the stairs. He thought he'd escaped when Joe said his name, if softly. Eight steps up, Rick squatted down and peered through a gap in the railing. "Yeah?" 

"Lock the door next time. I really didn't need to see that."

"Sorry!" Rick didn't know why he was apologising. It wasn't like anyone was sorry when he'd... seen things. 

Joe looked up at him, pushed his chair back and took a step closer. "I decided that sort of thing's not for me." 

The fuck? Talk about denial, Rick thought to himself. Something in his face must have said the same. 

"I'm serious. But what about you. Um, you alright?" 

Several more thoughts flashed through Rick's mind. Was Joe inquiring after his health? As in, the state of his arse? Truth be told, it might hurt some but who asks such a thing? Did perhaps the frontman have such a complex that he was worried about not having the biggest... Wow. If he wanted a play-by-play account of them fucking, that was none of his business! Was Joe asking him in so many words, "Do you want to talk about it?" Well fuck that, too. Rick wasn't some girl who needed to discuss feelings, including the ones that were twinging bigtime over the fact that he could be so physically satisfied and at the same time, emotionally bereft. Because that's how he felt. No, it hadn't been the same. At this moment, the only thing Rick could think of was that he was for once glad that this old row house had a bathtub instead of a shower. 

"Oi! Earth to Rick..." 

"Sod off." He stood to head the rest of the way upstairs. Moved faster when he heard footsteps gallumping up behind him. 

Joe caught him up at the top. Spun him around and Rick hauled back to prevent whatever was about to happen. Before he could land a punch, Joe had his entirely too-long arms around him. "Settle down... it'll be alright." 

It was exactly what Rick needed. That and only that. Not a quick fuck or even a long, intense one. Not any sort of sexual overture. Just comfort. Finally he stopped shaking, hadn't even realised he'd been. Joe only held on to him a minute, though it seemed like a year. "Don't get caught up in it. I mean, do what you want. But keep your distance... if the band's gonna make it."

Rick understood the concept. The reality was another matter. 

Backing off, Joe left for work then; Rick had his bath, and then he crashed. Sometime around noon, he supposed, Mrs. Elliott knocked on Joe's bedroom door and asked if he'd come downstairs for lunch. Rick mumbled something he hoped was halfway polite and slept another two hours till Joe marched in and forcibly removed his lazy arse from the bed. 

Back to the studio they trudged. Whatever he'd dreamed, he felt well-rested and clear-headed, the opposite of his middle-of-the-night crisis. 

Then it came down to the final cut of the track listing. Tempers flared. They were exhausted, twenty-hour days for almost a month and weeks of more concentrated effort than any of them, even Steve with all the lessons in his younger years, had sat through. Not being able to hear the finished products was wearing. None of them were entirely satisfied, but they had run out of time.


End file.
